All That Is Gold
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: All in vain, the voices sing in a chorus, all in vain, there is nothing but empty stone halls and gold, but is gold not what you wanted, Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, heir of Durin, heir of Erebor, heir of the Throne Under the Mountain, heir of the empty halls and ashes and ghosts of the past.
1. Chapter 1

_For Kaja, Filigranka, and everyone who's disappointed with the third _Hobbit _film._

* * *

><p><strong>All That Is Gold<strong>

He sits on the throne of his forefathers, the stone both strange and eerily familiar under his hands. Over his head there is an empty space gaping like a dark tunnel, pulling him in – the space where the Arkenstone had been set, once. Now hollow, like the vast halls of Erebor.

He hears his name, echoed in those long dead voices, chanting quietly in his mind, Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, a constant reminder that all his efforts were in vain, that he might have reclaimed the treasure hoard and the mountain but not the kingdom, for it had perished in dragonfire, and not his home, for that he had left behind in Ered Luin. All in vain, the voices sing in a chorus, all in vain, there is nothing but empty stone halls and gold, but is gold not what you wanted, Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, heir of Durin, heir of Erebor, heir of the Throne Under the Mountain, heir of the empty halls and ashes and ghosts of the past.

They find the armours and the weapons, and the harps of old, wrought in gold and silver, and the halls echo with music once again, with songs of victory and triumph. His nephews are with him, and so are his friends, and an invisible hand clutches at his throat and chest at seeing life returned to Erebor. But then he looks further, beyond the circle of firelight and reflections of crystal lamps, at the far ends of the halls, at the tunnels shrouded with darkness, and pain pierces his heart like a sword at seeing all the lives that are _not_ there.

They find precious stones and gems, unimaginable riches, and gold in piles and rivers. Gold in mountains and lakes, a landscape of gold. In a polished surface of an old shield he can see the gleam in his eyes, like the glint of this very metal he treasures so much.

Dimly, he remembers another kind of gold, softer, warmer, the memory so very distant he can barely recall it, because he had been yearning for this gold so very long and finally it is his, spread like a carpet beneath his feet. But the cups and rings are cold in his hands, and the crown is like a circlet of ice on his head, and he can feel the coals of his heart burn lower and then freeze over, but he pays no heed, distracted by thousand of sparks the fire ignites on every surface, on every coin, and he forgets that other kind of gold has a name that he could not recall and that it troubled him.

There is no sunlight in Erebor, but it seems to him that the gold shines just as brightly. But it is just a reflection, not a light. Just as their voices are but a pale reflection of the countless lives he remembers. But when at night all but him are at the gate and he walks among his treasures again, he stumbles upon a harp, simple and wooden, and his fingers stumble on the harpstrings, the notes quiver in the air and then comes the rain. The only clouds in Erebor are those upon his forehead and those darkening his eyes, but unlike the fake sun reflected in gold, the rain is real.


	2. Chapter 2

_For Kaja._

* * *

><p>. . .<p>

For a moment, he is certain that the hobbit is a real burglar, a real thief, than the hobbit has taken the Arkenstone. But then Bilbo looks at him, perplexed, and opens his palm. Thorin stares at the acorn in disbelief, his rage washing over him like a wave, leaving him baffled, even amused by his own suspicions.

Baffled. Amused. _Shaken_. He looks at the acorn – the smallest thing, so insignificant among all the treasures of Erebor – the most important thing – and he remembers.

The smell of damp earth, right after the rain. The taste of water from a mountain stream, clearer than any crystals, more potent and heady than any wine. The winds in his hair and in his lungs. Sunlight, warm on his face – the sun, his thoughts cry in triumph and relief, that other kind of gold is called the sun. The simple life in Ered Luin – the difficult life in Ered Luin – the _life_ in Ered Luin, while Erebor is nothing but a tomb full of memories.

Thorin turns and walks away, but for one day, for one moment, he remembers. He looks at his treasures: gold and silver and mithril, crystal and gems: sapphires, emeralds, diamonds. So precious. So worthless. He remembers. The gold of sunsets and sunrises, the silver of dawn, the mithril of moon and stars on a clear winter night. The sky reflected in the mountain meres, light blue sky at noon and dark blue sky at dusk, deeper than any shade of sapphires. Grass, soft under his fingers, greener than any emeralds. Sparkling streams, brighter than any diamonds. He remembers, everything, he remembers that more difficult and yet simpler life. So worthless. So _priceless_.


	3. Chapter 3

_For Hildy._

* * *

><p>. . .<p>

Fíli cries out. Kíli falls to his knees. Thorin freezes. Staggers. Chokes on a breath, because the scene is painfully familiar.

It is winter in Ered Luin, and his nephews are learning how to skate, enthusiastic about all the snow and ice and even the cold. Thorin watches, close enough to help, if need be, far enough to let the boys feel confident that they can do it on their own. Shouts, the swishing of blades, the sky vast and wide and open over their heads.

Fíli cries out. Kíli falls to his knees. Thorin freezes. Staggers. Gets to his nephews, sees Kíli's scraped hands. Thinks of what Dís will say, is afraid of what Dís will say.

"Don't worry, uncle." Kíli smiles at him briefly, lightly. "I won't tell Mum."

Shouts, the swishing of blades, the sky vast and wide and open over their heads. Thorin gets to his nephews, sees Kíli's scraped hands, the blood on his face, the deep wound in his side, a splash of red on his stomach, his breath, bubbling up in red on his lips. Thinks of what Dís will say, is afraid of what Dís will say, is _frightened _of what Dís will say.

"Don't worry, uncle." Kíli smiles at him briefly, lightly. "I won't tell Mum." He sighs, softly, as is falling into sleep, and closes his eyes. Stills. Still like a stone. He has always slept like stone. He will not tell his mother of Thorin's failing. He will not tell his mother of anything.

Fíli yells, rushes forward. Falls to his knees, and the sudden splash of red blinds Thorin for a moment, and now he is _terrified_. Not of what Dís will say. Of what she will not say. She will not speak. She will weep.

A flash of pain right through his chest, and Thorin thinks it is heartbreak, but then sees it is a spear lodged in between his ribs. He laughs, a terrible hollow laughter. He weeps. Tears blur his vision and so he does not notice another spear aimed at him. And another. Neither reaches his heart. No need; it is shattered already.

"I am sorry, little sister," he whispers, falling down to his knees. He knows that he will not tell her. He will not be there to tell her.

He staggers, tries to get up, falls onto his back. Closes his eyes.

Distant shouts. The swishing of blades. Beloved voices, now silent, beloved faces, still like stone. His heart in tatters. The sky forgiving, vast and wide and open over his head.


	4. Chapter 4

_For Fifi._

* * *

><p>A swoosh of a blade, a splash of blood, black, not red, leaving a trail on his sword and in the air as Fíli turns towards another foe. This is the dance the Khazad are masters of, the dance of death, a blade, a shield, a life snuffed out, a life struggling to burn for a little longer.<p>

He turns and sees Thorin, surrounded by enemies, and without thinking he leaps to his uncle, to aid Thorin with his blade, to protect Thorin with his shield. Fíli knows that his uncle would have tried to stop him, but Thorin is busy fighting and he does not quite notice. He understands why Thorin would do that, understands all too well, because every now and then his gaze finds Kíli on the battlefield, to make sure his younger brother is not wounded. Fíli understands, because every time he glances at Kíli he sees that little dwarfling whom he helped learn to walk, to skate, to fight, a small light wooden sword in small chubby hands. And should - Mahal preserve! - should Kíli fall, defending him, Fíli would never forgive himself.

He understands, but still he leaps to Thorin's side, because it is not a matter of understanding nor reason but that of heart and his whole being, because Thorin is his uncle, his mother's brother, his kin, his blood. Because Thorin is like a father to him, and as the heir of Thráin and Thrór and Durin he is like a father to Durin's folk, and it is duty and instinct to protect the father.

Thorin notices and yells at him, and Fíli looks at his uncle apologetically, but does not fall back. He remains by Thorin's side because every time he glances at Thorin he sees that great proud dwarf who leaned over him and helped him learn to fight, a small light wooden sword in Fíli's small chubby hands. He remains by Thorin's side because it is fitting that he should repay the debt by _fighting_ for his uncle now, a heavy iron sword in his big strong hands.

Thorin yells at him and Fíli smiles to let his uncle know it is all right, that maybe this is not how the world is meant to be but for him it is all right. Because they are family, and it is only natural to protect family, and Fíli would rather die himself - without regrets and without fear, with a proud smile on his face - than allow Thorin to die for him.

From the corner of his eyes he notices a movement, much too late, and smiles at Thorin again, to let him know it is all right. There is a sudden cry and a blur and a glint of a blade. There is red blooming on the metal of the armour like a terrible flower as Kíli falls to the ground, looking at Fíli apologetically and smiling at him to let him know it is all right, because every time Kíli glances at him, he sees the proud big brother who leaned over him and helped him learn to fight, a small light wooden sword in Kíli's small chubby hands.

Fíli cries out and blinks away tears as he learns, irreversibly and in the most painful and cruel way, that is not all right.


	5. Chapter 5

_For Ygrain._

* * *

><p>Everyone leaves something: a piece of armour, a weapon, a jewel, a word. Bard, the king of men, leaves the Arkenstone, and Thranduil, the king of elves, leaves Orcrist. Dáin, the king of dwarves, is the last one to step forth and bow before Thorin's open tomb, the last one to look upon his cousin's face. The last one to bring his parting gift.<p>

Dáin could choose any piece of armour or weapon or any jewel; he is the King Under the Mountain now, and it would be his right to pick anything, _anything_. And so he does.

He steps forward, leans over Thorin's body – strong and unyielding as stone in life, quiet and cold as stone in death – and gently places the crown of Thrór upon Thorin's brow. The crown of the king.

Dáin is king now, but he does not want that crown. He will have a new one made, a simpler one, made of iron – iron is a good metal, not as noble as silver but simpler and infinitely more durable, a metal of swords and armours and mining pickaxes – iron is his name, and he is iron himself – he might break, but he will not bend. Thorin was like that, too, never bent and then simply fell, like a stone tumbling down the mountain slope, like his father and grandfather before him.

Dáin remembers Moria and the fall of Thrór, and Thorin's demise is all too sharp in his memory. He looks down, at his cousin's immobile face – calm, finally calm – and he recalls the past, and he thinks of the future.

He wonders whether the kings of the Durin's line had offended Mahal somehow, or whether it is simply the changing of the world, and those who cannot bend like trees in the wind and cannot change like trees over the course of seasons inevitably have to fall. He wonders what his own end will be like, and in what battle he will have to fall. Because when he looks at Thrór's crown – and Thorin's, for a moment, and now Thorin's forever – he does not believe his end will be peaceful and calm. No, that does not seem to be the fate of the line of Durin; from Durin, the sixth of that name, through Náin, his son, and then the first Dáin, and Thrór and Thráin and Thorin; death comes to the kings of Durin's line sudden like a leap of flame.

Dáin looks at the crown upon Thorin's cold brow and smiles grimly, briefly; a quiet challenge to fate. He does not know much about the workings of the wider world, nor of the great matters of which the wizards and sages take care, but he is a child of Mahal, and thus he knows the terrible battle was but a portent of what is to come. He can feel it in the earth and stone; not quaking nor trembling, but a stillness like that before a gas explosion in a mine or an avalanche on a steep, snowy mountain slope. He can feel, and yet there is no fear in his heart, even as he looks at Thorin's battered body one last time.

He does not fear and he smiles, because he is a child of Mahal, and thus always brave against the shadows, and he is Durin the Deathless' heir, and thus proud like Erebor and like the highest peaks over Khazad-dûm. He is stone and iron, and even though he might break and fall and shatter, he will never bend.


	6. Chapter 6

_For ThreeHundredStarsAbove._

* * *

><p>. . .<p>

When Bilbo comes back to his cosy smial, at first he feels overwhelming relief. Relief at being back home, away from adventures and safe from dragons and wargs and goblins, from cold rivers and cold rains, from narrow dark caves and vast open spaces, and from all the matters too big and grand for a simple hobbit.

But days and weeks and months pass, and though he enjoys the comforts of his cosy home, and the warm meals and warm bath and his warm bed, he grows restless. One can never take the Shire out of a hobbit, but it turns out it is possible to take a hobbit out of the Shire, and the way back is long and when the hobbit gets back, he finds, to his utter frustration and disbelief and unexpected sadness settling in the depths of his heart he had never thought he has, but then learned otherwise – the poor hobbit finds that he no longer suits the Shire, that he does no longer suit the place he left empty when he went for an adventure.

And when he feels like that – too much Tookish blood, he thinks in disdain but also with a touch of pride – he walks out and puts on his ring and disappears, and wanders. Across the meadows and fields and river banks and forest edges, across the Shire and its perfect little roads and gardens and smials, part of it all but not quite, part of it all but not really there, or maybe the other way round, there with his feet on the Shire earth but not fully part of it all ever again. Bilbo is a simple hobbit, and does not like to thinks of alwayses and nevers and ever agains, so when those thoughts catch up with him, he returns home to do what all hobbits do to relax: smokes a pipe.

He opens the windows to feel the soft evening wind, lights the fire in the fireplace, pours himself a small ale and sits in his favourite armchair, close to the fire which keeps his feet pleasantly warm. He puts a plaid across his knees, because it is autumn and the nights are getting cold – a dwarven plaid, a gift sent by Balin from Erebor, a keepsake, a memory of the adventure which Bilbo wishes he never had and which he would never, never trade for anything. And then he reaches out over to the small table, where there are books of elven poetry and a book in nice red covers which he uses to write down his tale, and some loose pages of scribbles and half-finished poems and songs he only sometimes hums to himself, and takes his pipe.

It is a new pipe, sent by the kind king of Dale in recognition of Bilbo's help back at Erebor. It is wooden and simple but it is also shaped like a dragon and intricately ornamented, and when smoked it looks like a dragon breathing fire. A little wooden dragon, a thing to laugh at, not a terrifying beast made of scales and flames and evil, a reminder of things and times so dark Bilbo is thankful he does not have the capacity to truly understand it.

Instead he feeds the wooden dragon pipe-weed and lights the pipe and smokes, and looks at the fire dancing in the fireplace and at the night outside, and thinks. He thinks of elven waterfalls and elven music, he thinks of the dwarven kingdom, overwhelming even in its lost glory, and of dwarven songs, he thinks of fights and the battle and fear, and of his little trusted sword and of his little hobbit courage, and of friends simple and prosperous and of those baffling and wandering, and at last of friends dead and of the lives they could have lived if they had settled for a simpler life, like the one he leads now, like the one he used to lead. Ah, Bilbo, old fool, he chides himself, expecting others to be content with life you were not content with. On nights like this, with the fire and autumn wind and the cold night outside, remembering the last light of Durin's Day, he feels nostalgic, melancholic.

But he is a Baggins and so he would never admit that even to himself, so he puffs out a neat ring of smoke and lets the thoughts go with it, because they are complicated and do not suit his simple life. He takes a hearty gulp of ale, and stuffs his pipe again, and smiles, amused.

Wooden dragons are quite funny, and Bilbo laughs more than once as he watches his new pipe devour the pipe-weed and puff out smoke. Wooden dragons are safe and not real dragons and almost fit into the patchwork of the Shire. Almost. But not quite. Like the poor little hobbit that left for an adventure and found his way back, but never quite returned.


End file.
